


A Cold Dish

by poppetawoppet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-10
Updated: 2010-09-10
Packaged: 2018-04-19 16:17:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4752863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poppetawoppet/pseuds/poppetawoppet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>originally written for thegameison_sh cycle one, round two, prompt: dark fic</p>
<p> Moriarty has been expecting Sherlock to come for revenge. He didn't expect it like this</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Cold Dish

When Moriarty wakes, he is groggy and unsure. This strikes him as strange, because he is always careful. Always protected.

He blinks and sees the table nearby, but it is covered by a black towel, the lumps underneath familiar and frightening.

He turns his head and sees a familiar face.

"Sherlock."

"Hello, Jim."

Sherlock's face is stone, and Moriarty can read nothing from it. Moriarty has been expecting this for some time now, has been waiting so long that he thought that Sherlock had forgotten. But Moriarty is here, and he is pleased that Sherlock has done this.

After all, Moriarty took something from Sherlock, it is only fair Sherlock take something back.

"Does Lestrade know we are here? I bet he would be very unhappy if he did know."

Sherlock smiles, and Moriarty's heart stops.

"How do you think I got past all of your security? See, Jim, when you said you'd burn the heart from me, you forgot something important."

Moriarty breathes. This is nothing. Sherlock must be bluffing. There is no way Lestrade would allow Sherlock alone in a room with the man who killed his partner.

"I forget nothing. I think you are trying to play me. But you forget something Sherlock, I _made_ you. I'm the reason you are who you are. So without me, you are just another misunderstood genius."

Sherlock sits in the chair opposite Moriarty. "Ah. Yes. I do admit that you inspired me to reach higher levels in my own work. But you did not make me complete."

Moriarty watches as Sherlock idly sharpens a knife, his eyes never leaving the blade.

"What you never understood Jim, was that my heart made me who I was. My heart made me better at what I did."

Moriarty squeezes the arms of his chair when Sherlock's gaze meets his own.

"See, Jim, John was my heart. John was everyone's heart."

Sherlock kneels in front of Moriarty and whispers in his ear.

"And you let him die alone and in pain. If you had killed anyone else, John may have stopped me from going this far. But you went straight to him. And there was your mistake. You killed our heart and now we must have blood."

"Torture Sherlock? How mundane."

Moriarty is quite proud of the lack of waver in his voice. But there is something in Sherlock's eyes, a sort of madness that makes Moriarty pause.

Sherlock laughs, and it makes Moriarty more nervous.

"Yes, but you forget how much I study. I've lived with a doctor for the last year. It's amazing what the human body can withstand. You have no idea at all."

Moriarty feels the blade against his hand, pressing just so against the skin. Sherlock is almost at Moriarty's side now, concentrating on the blade.

"See, I could kill you. _That_ would be mundane. Instead, I think we may just play here for awhile. Then I'll let you live."

"Boringggg."

"I'm not finished. Tonight you may lose a finger or two. It's the next time you might want to worry about. Or the time after that. Because the only way to truly repay what you've done is to make this last as long as it can."

"You let me go, and you'll never find me again."

Sherlock's face is in front of his again. "Trust me. I will _always_ find you. You think of running and it will only be worse."

Moriarty blinks, and for the first time he can see Lestrade, standing in the corner, his face revealing nothing but conformation of everything Sherlock has said.

"Sherlock—"

"No. You don't get to talk now. Now I get to talk. The first thing you lose is your left index finger. And then your right. Because that's how John typed. Two stupid little fingers at a time. He never learned to type with more. You should probably be thankful for that."

Sherlock presses the blade into the skin. The pain is excruciating, but Moriarty simply bites his tongue.

Sherlock looks up from the bloody hand. "Perhaps next time, we can discuss John's sex life."

By the time Sherlock gets to the second finger, Moriarty cannot scream loud enough.


End file.
